“Bring me that flour,” said Sophia sharply to the young girl, who obeyed, casting timid, startled glances at Miss Stark as she passed her.  Sophia Gill began rubbing her hands clear of the dough.  “I am sure I know nothing about it,” she said with a certain tempered asperity.  “Do you know anything about it, Flora?”

“Oh, no, I don’t know anything about it, Aunt Sophia,” answered the young girl, fluttering.

Then Sophia turned to Miss Stark.  “I’ll go upstairs with you, Miss Stark,” said she, “and see what the trouble is.  There must be some mistake.”  She spoke stiffly with constrained civility.

“Very well,” said Miss Stark with dignity.  Then she and Miss Sophia went upstairs.  Flora stood staring after them.

Sophia and Louisa Stark went up to the southwest chamber.  The closet door was shut.  Sophia threw it open, then she looked at Miss Stark.  On the pegs hung the schoolteacher’s own garments in ordinary array.

“I can’t see that there is anything wrong,” remarked Sophia grimly.

Miss Stark strove to speak but she could not.  She sank down on the nearest chair.  She did not even attempt to defend herself.  She saw her own clothes in the closet.  She knew there had been no time for any human being to remove those which she thought she had seen and put hers in their places.  She knew it was impossible.  Again the awful horror of herself overwhelmed her.

“You must have been mistaken,” she heard Sophia say.

She muttered something, she scarcely knew what.  Sophia then went out of the room.  Presently she undressed and went to bed.  In the morning she did not go down to breakfast, and when Sophia came to inquire, requested that the stage be ordered for the noon train.  She said that she was sorry, but was ill, and feared lest she might be worse, and she felt that she must return home at once.  She looked ill, and could not take even the toast and tea which Sophia had prepared for her.  Sophia felt a certain pity for her, but it was largely mixed with indignation.  She felt that she knew the true reason for the school-teacher’s illness and sudden departure, and it incensed her.

“If folks are going to act like fools we shall never be able to keep this house,” she said to Amanda after Miss Stark had gone; and Amanda knew what she meant.

Directly the widow, Mrs. Elvira Simmons, knew that the school-teacher had gone and the southwest room was vacant, she begged to have it in exchange for her own.  Sophia hesitated a moment; she eyed the widow sharply.  There was something about the large, roseate face worn in firm lines of humour and decision which reassured her.

“I have no objection, Mrs. Simmons,” said she, “if—­”

“If what?” asked the widow.

“If you have common sense enough not to keep fussing because the room happens to be the one my aunt died in,” said Sophia bluntly.